Sorry
by partsguy
Summary: After Joan and Endeavour finally got together it looked as if life was finally going to go in their favor. But how did Morse end up a bachelor? How did he react?
1. Chapter 1

**Sorry**

After all these years it still infuriated him. Infuriated him to think that they still acted as if they felt sorry for him. And he knew that every new detective, or constable assigned to the station had to be let in on the secret. That they were told to tread lightly because of his sensitivities before they even met him. And it wasn't just his fellow officers at the station, was it? Dorothea Frazil was likely in on it as well, apparently making sure that all her people not only respected the boundaries she had laid down, but that they didn't even approach them.

As a result it had become like a weight which he could never entirely remove from his shoulders. Ignoring it merely allowed it to grind deeper into his psyche. At the same time building its own temple to his grief. And because nobody wanted to mention it, the wounds festered. Why didn't somebody just have the nerve to ask him about it? Or maybe even come out and say, "I heard a story in the canteen today, and I wanted to say that I'm sorry.". Maybe even when one of his black moods came on, to just come out and say "don't take it out on me, I didn't do it! I didn't kill her!"

But nobody was going to do that were they? Most of his comrades, he wouldn't say they had been friends exactly, were gone now. The passage of the years leading them into either advancement, like Jim Strange, or retirement like Fred Thursday. Ol' Max was probably the only one of the old guard left who might chance it. On several occasions when they had found themselves alone, with a glass of Glenfiddich, he had thought that he would. Had almost wanted to beg him to chance it. But Max was far too disciplined for that. So the moment would pass, and the weight got ever more slightly heavier.

Many nights as he sat in his lonely house, listening to his music, watching the hands of the clock slowly moving around the face, along with the simultaneous lowering of the level in his latest bottle, he thought how different his life would have been with her. Dinner with a partner, instead of alone. Her laughter instead of silence. A rivalry over which music on the record player, classical or pop. Having to make at least an effort with the housework. And at the close of the day, sitting in his favorite chair, a scotch in his hand while she sat across from him with a book, sipping her wine. Perhaps they would have had a child, they wouldn't have been too old. Likely more than one as she had believed that a child should have siblings. He always found himself smiling at those moments, she had always loved children. Possibly his career would have been different. How she would have made sure that he maintained the passion he had when he was younger.

If she had been there maybe he wouldn't be the old curmudgeon that he had become.

It really was unfair. After all they had been through, the near misses and misunderstandings between them. The times that he had, no that they both had, thrown their hands up and said, "no more, never again." Yet, it seemed that they always circled back to each other. Back towards a life that had seemed so promising. And she had been transforming him, molding him. Had taken him from the introvert that he naturally was to something else. His friends had seen the metamorphosis. Had teased him unmercifully, in a good-natured way, about finally joining the human race.

And then it had abruptly been taken away. He could still see in his mind's eye how Mr. Bright had walked into Thursday's office that afternoon. How he had shut the door and closed the blinds to prevent any of them seeing what was to happen. He had heard the crash, like someone had slammed their fist on the desk. Just a single time, and then quiet.

How a few minutes later Mr. Bright had stepped out and ordered him to get a driver and have him take Inspector Thursday home. Then after the Inspector had left how he had asked him to come into Thursday's office. How he had broken the news to him. How he had followed procedure exactly as it was laid out in the manual. "Come in, have a seat, would you like a drink? I'm sure the Inspector has a bottle around here somewhere."…. "No?" "I'm sorry but I'm afraid I have some bad news….there has been an accident."

He didn't remember much after that. He knew that Mr. Bright had kept talking for a bit. Offering his condolences, whatever that could be done for him, terrible loss, blah, blah. Of course they would provide a driver to take him home, of course he would be given a few days off.

It was odd he thought that he didn't remember much about the next three days. He knew that he had been to visit with the Inspector and his wife. Remembered how awful it had been. How red the inspector's eyes had been, and how Mrs. Thursday would constantly break down in tears. It had been so awkward. How glad he had been to get away. To go home and try and drown his personal grief in scotch.

The funeral service was like one of those outer body experiences the trendy set talk about at cocktail parties. Sitting there with her family, he couldn't take his eyes off the casket. As if he were trying to understand how a wooden box, no matter how pretty could contain her. How the last time he had seen her how beautiful and vibrant she had been. And now she was a piece of meat in a wooden box.

They had buried her in the graveyard of her church. Sam had told him, or he thought it was Sam, that there were many members of her family scattered about there. Of course there would be no room for him nearby.

He had visited the grave once since then. It had been a beautiful Oxford day, and it had been approaching sunset when he arrived. The caretaker had told him that they were closing for the day. But he was not to be deterred, one glance at his warrant card had persuaded the old gentleman to change his mind. He had only stayed a few minutes, long enough to notice that grass was taking hold in the bare earth above her. Long enough to wish that he had brought flowers. He remembered how beautiful she had been on the rooftop of her flat that day. He had thought about talking to her. Of telling her how very sorry he was, of how much he missed her. But his faith wasn't strong enough. He had thought that he was strong enough to bear it, but he wasn't. He had walked away, shutting the gate, and giving a nod of thanks to the caretaker as he walked by. And he hadn't been back.

He had a photograph of her around. One of her friends had taken it at a party. The two of them together. So young, she was smiling while he was trying his best not to. He had put it inside one of his favorite books. He couldn't bear to look at it.

He twirled the liquid around in his glass and glanced at the clock on the wall. Not yet. He wasn't ready to face his dreams, or were they nightmares? Sometimes she came to him in the night, soft and lovely, as if nothing had happened. But he would always awaken.

To find that it was just a dream.


	2. Chapter 2 Never Again

Never Again

His first conscious thought was to tell himself that no matter what he had to keep his eyes shut. Perhaps that would buy enough time for his alcohol fogged brain to try and remember where he was and hopefully whether he was alone in the bed. And if he wasn't alone maybe he could buy enough time to be able to remember her name. In the meantime he could not afford to give any indication that he had awakened from his stupor. It had been another short night of fitful sleep, tossing and turning, not even the sleep of a man who had tried to drown his demons with alcohol. The fact that each of his fists were grasping as much of the sheets as he had been able to gather only confirming his nightly struggle. Another example, if any more were needed, of the depth of his nightly struggle with his demons. Worse, he hadn't even opened his eyes before he began to feel the return of the pain that was the cause of this. Or perhaps it was the excuse for this. Regardless of the cause it was back. That familiar feeling that he almost always woke to, whether he was alone or not. He really didn't know how to describe it other than a hollow ache deep down in his gut. To him there was no way to describe it other than a feeling of loss.

Before he could allow himself to open his eyes, he made one more effort to gather his wits about him, trying to remember where he was. Was he in his own bed, or was he somewhere else? Eyes still closed he took the time to listen for a bit, trying to bridge that netherworld between the prison of his dreams and the harsh reality of another dawn. Finally, despite his reluctance to do so he carefully opened his eyes. Taking a few moments to allow his eyes to adjust to his surroundings, he found himself in what appeared to be familiar surroundings, the prison of his bedroom. As he expected the room was still dark, but there was a hint of grey beginning to creep around the edge of the east facing window. Carefully extending an arm he was able to ascertain that as he had thought he was the only occupant of the bed. While that would make the rest of the morning less complicated it didn't change his routine much. All his senses told him that once again he had drunk far too much the night before, stayed out far too late. His mouth felt and tasted like what he imagined licking a sand dune would taste like. And his head, while it didn't hurt too badly, was warning him not to make any sudden moves or there would be consequences. From where he lay, on his back, apparently diagonally across the bed, being careful not to move, scarcely daring to breath, he could vaguely make out unfamiliar shapes where the furniture should be. Apparently, the irregularity of the shapes must be because there were various items of clothing draped over them. Staring at them, he finally was able to discern that they were, his own familiar items, spread out in a random pattern. Likely they were where he had dropped them as he had undressed as he staggered his way from the doorway to the bed. Just the mental effort required to make that determination had exhausted him. He dropped his head, although collapsed would be more accurate, back onto the sheet as gently as he could manage. After collecting himself for a minute he was able to muster his strength enough that he dared to raise his head again and look around, trying to find a clock. Once found then he had to understand what the position of the illuminated hands meant. He briefly considered that the right thing to do would be to get up and fix himself some breakfast. The mere thought however was almost enough to make him ill. Enough so that, even though he was not a religious man, he offered up a promise to whatever deity would listen that he would never engage in such behavior again. That precaution taken he had almost satisfied himself that he needed to make the effort, when the stillness was shattered by the ringing of a telephone, his phone.

Not only was it ringing, the blasted thing just would not stop ringing, no matter how many pillows he pulled over his head in desperation, or how much he cursed it under his breath. Worse he knew that not only would it not stop; he knew who was on the other end of the line. Jim Strange called every morning, and every morning he refused to give up until his call was answered. Sometimes he wondered whether Jim was just being a friend, or, was he curious to see if he had spent the night alone. No matter the effect was the same, when he finally surrendered and answered no amount of screaming, no amount of hateful, hurtful invective hurled at him would prevent his calling the next day.

This had been the way his life had been ever since she died. People trying to help him, in various ways, and his rebellion against their efforts. He was under no illusion that most of them did it out of loyalty to her memory, not for him. He was aware of the kind of difficult, wounded man he had been before her. She had come so close to healing him, so close that he could almost taste it. But now there was nothing but a feeling of emptiness. That something precious had been snatched away from him. The feeling that without her he would never again be alive.

He wasn't naïve enough to not realize that each day like this he was squandering what she had worked so hard to achieve. Wasting it on alcohol and women that could never equal what had been wrenched away from him.

He finally was able to gather enough energy to reach the blasted phone and lift the handset from the receiver, before letting it fall to the floor. Then making a supreme effort he was able to swing his legs over the side of the bed before he sat up. He was only able to remain like that for a few moments before he fell backwards onto the mattress. Looking up at the ceiling, slowly being revealed to him as the light from outside slowly spread across the room, he could only think of one thing. "what the hell am I going to do?"


End file.
